Like Calls to Like
by bayesiandragon
Summary: Two boys, sharing the same soul, stand in the exact same place, staring up at bloody rafters. Only time separates them, and fate soon rectifies that. A friendship is made, a leap of faith is taken, and the tapestry known as history is rewoven.
1. Chapter 1

Harry stood outside the church, watching as his relatives disappeared through the doors. Of course, he would not be allowed into a holy house. He was a freak. A devil child. And he had no place in the domain of God, whether it be on Earth or in Heaven. That was what the Dursleys told him, anyway. He could not see what made him so different from any other eight year old child. It wasn't his fault that accidents happened around him, and he doubted that a kind, loving God would really bar him from his house on Easter. "No," Harry thought bitterly, "It's all the Dursleys." They had hated him from the moment he had shown up on their doorstep and had tried to make his life as miserable for him as possible.

Sometimes, Harry wondered why he listened to his relatives at all, or stayed with them. Sure, they fed him, and clothed him, but he couldn't really find it in himself to be grateful for what every person he had ever met had in excess. Harry glanced over his shoulder, looking at the worn down building across the street, surrounded by a rusty chain-link fence. The yard was smothered by weeds and the place looked like it hadn't been used for years. Slowly, hardly realizing what he was doing, Harry moved towards the fence. His hand brushed over the cool metal before he was suddenly jolted out of his strange trance.

What was he doing? He glanced back over at the church, and fear clouded his eyes. The Dursleys had told him not to move from the spot outside the church and would no doubt punish him if they caught him. Why did he want to enter the abandoned building, anyways? Harry's gaze drifted back to the run-down property, and he made his decision. The gate creaked open for the first time in decades.

* * *

Fifty-four years and two days ago, a thin, pale boy sat on a swing, his hand clutched around the chain. He stared past the fence, out at the street running in front of the Orphanage, not noticing as a much bigger boy pushed the gate open, stepping onto the grounds. "Hey, Tommy!" The newcomer called out, his voice mocking, "How does it feel, being alone out here? I betcha feel real sorry for yourself, Tommy." The boy on the swing narrowed his eyes. No, he did not feel sorry for himself, and he did not care to spend time with the other children at the orphanage. All he wanted was for his father to come, to take him away from this hellhole. His father would be like him; he would be special. The other children did not matter. They were not special, and they would never understand. They were beneath him.

"Don't call me that," Tom said. His lips hardly moved. The other boy stepped forward, an expression of glee on his face.

"Why not, Tommy boy?" he taunted. Tom felt a flutter of fear inside him, but his dark green eyes remained cold. Impassive.

"Haven't you heard about what I can do?" Tom whispered. He drew up his power, his magic. Nobody was going to beat him up, and especially not here. This was where he waited for his father, and everybody knew it. Before Tom could do anything, a fist slammed into his face, knocking him off the swing. A foot followed soon after, again and again, kicking him in the stomach.

"I don't care what you can do, Tommy," the other boy said, triumph clear in his voice. "This place is mine."

* * *

A hand brushed over the degraded sign, choked in vegetation. "St. Wool's Orphanage," Harry muttered musingly, reading the faded letters. The name felt as if it should mean something to him, but he could not say that he remembered anyone ever mentioning it before. There was just… this feeling. It was hard to place. Harry glanced around the property, his eyes moving from a scraggly tree to a broken swing set. One swing dangled by a single rusted chain, and the other had fallen off entirely. It was coated in dried mud. For a moment, Harry thought he could see a pale wisp on the swing, out of the corner of his eye, but it was gone when he looked more closely. What was wrong with him? There was nothing there. Nothing at all.

Harry told himself that he had only imagined the faint yell of pain- and how could it be real, anyway?- but moved forward more quickly, nonetheless. The front doors to the orphanage hung slightly open, which was a good thing, since they were permanently rusted in their current positions. The gap between the doors was small, but Harry had always been a skinny boy. Between running from his cousin, Dudley, and being sent to his cupboard without meals, he was much smaller than most boys his age. Harry slipped through, and peered into the abandoned building. He didn't know what it was that he was looking for, but he did know that he was drawn to the old orphanage. What harm could it do to poke around a bit?

He moved past rows of cracked windows, looking around. There really was nothing of interest here, that he could see. There was a crumbling wooden staircase, leading up to a second floor, but he doubted it would be much different from the first: empty and bland. Harry continued forward anyway, still not knowing what it was that he wanted to see. "Something interesting maybe," he thought dryly. Suddenly, he stopped as a chilling feeling shot up his spine. His scar, a thin, lightning-bolt-shaped disfigurement across his forehead, began to prickle, and he felt his eyes drawn upwards, towards the rafters. There was a dark stain that looked frighteningly like blood across one beam, and a small nub of a dirty, rotten rope hung from the beam, motionless in the still air.

Harry stared upwards, transfixed, as if nothing existed but that one bloody beam and the piece of rope that dangled from it. Then, his mouth went dry as a terrifying question came to mind. Had something been hung here?

* * *

The rabbit struggled in Tom's arms as he directed a vicious smile at it. The rope slowly coiled around the creature's midsection, and another subtly softer smile crossed the boy's face. He had never had so much control over his power before! Tom levitated the rope upwards, pulling the frantic rabbit up with it. His eyes flicked towards the high beam supporting the ceiling, and he smirked. "Yes," he thought, tying the rope to the beam. "This will do quite nicely…" The rabbit stared down at him fearfully, clawing at the rope in a futile effort to free itself. Its terror would end soon, anyway. The animal's eyes were huge, as if begging him to let it down, to spare it. As if it was wondering what it had done to deserve such treatment.

"Oh no, you haven't done anything at all," Tom whispered, knowing that his words fell on uncomprehending ears. "It's your master who's being punished, you see." Billy Stubbs. A big, bullying idiot. Tom knew quite well that the older boy was used to getting what he wanted, but he was soon going to… lose that habit. And what better way to take his revenge on him than by letting him see his dead rabbit when he came back from the Easter church service? The swing set was Tom's, for him to sit on and wait. He didn't need his father, of course; he needed nobody. But he wanted him. He wasn't so foolish as he was when he was younger to "know" that his father would save him and make them all pay. But he hoped for it. Fiercely.

Tom shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He knew what came next, even though he had never done it before, and he slowly floated a huge, rusty nail upwards until it was pointing at the rabbit's throat. Even if his father never came, his swings were not for Stubbs to take. His power put him far above the pathetic boy, and this would remind everyone of that. He would never be just a manual laborer, like the matron regularly told him. His power would allow him to rise far, far above the other children, and, one day, he would come and repay them for every single thing they had ever said or did to him. But for now, this was a start.

The nail slammed forward with all the force of his anger.

* * *

Harry's scar burned, and he dropped to his knees in pain. He didn't know if he screamed. Maybe he did, and maybe he didn't. The moment seemed to stretch on, and on, until-

There was a blinding flash of green, searing Harry's eyes, like the terrible flash from his dreams. The pain in his scar increased, and now Harry knew that he did scream. The light intensified until all he could see was a wash of brilliant green, and high, cold laughter seemed to echo in his ears. Then it all vanished.

* * *

A pain shot through Tom's chest, as if he had been struck through the heart by an invisible spear. It was gone in an instant, but Tom was left feeling somewhat… hollow. As if he had lost something forever. He snorted, glancing up at the blood-splattered rafters, but he couldn't shake off the feeling. This was ridiculous! Tom had never murdered before, but he had never believed that once you killed you lost something you could never regain. He had always scoffed at the idea that you would always be haunted by those whose lives you took.

It was just a stupid, spoiled rabbit. It was just an animal. Killing it was no worse than what he had done to Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop in the cave, so why was he feeling so strange? Besides, that rabbit deserved to die, for belonging to Billy Stubbs. It deserved to die, for being called cute when his snakes were mercilessly stomped on and beat to death with sticks. It deserved to die, for being the pet of the orphanage's older bullies, for making them look like the little angels he knew they were not. He felt no remorse for what he had done. No remorse at all.

* * *

The instant the blinding light was gone, a boy materialized on top of him. The boy did not fall on him, or jump on him- he just appeared all of a sudden, standing on Harry's splayed out legs. The next second, the boy lost balance and fell forward, landing flat on his face. He made a soft sound as he hit the floor, and Harry's mind raced. Where had the boy come from? Had he just somehow appeared, in the same way that, two months ago, Harry himself had appeared on the roof to escape Dudley and his friends?

Harry's thoughts were interrupted by the other boy. He had whirled around to glare at Harry, his dark green eyes cold. "Where did you come from?" the boy demanded. "Are you new here? I don't recognize you." The boy spoke in a way that made it sound like he was used to his questions being answered immediately. Probably with lots of trembling and stuttering, too. And yet, despite somehow knowing this, Harry couldn't seem to make words come out of his mouth.

"I asked you a question". It was a simple statement, but the boy seemed to fill it with menace and anger. Harry swallowed and opened his mouth. No words came out. "If you're new here," the boy all but growled, "let the first thing you learn be that if I ask you something, you answer." Pain flared up Harry's arm, and Harry looked up at the boy, who was coldly staring at the spot where the pain was greatest, a cruel smile twisting on his lips.

"Are you afraid of me now?" the boy whispered. "This is why they call me the devil child." Rage filled Harry as he suddenly realized that this boy was the one who was hurting him. How dare he? Harry shoved back at the pain, and it vanished as soon as it had come. The other boy stumbled back, shock filling his eyes before it was replaced by an emotionless mask. In front of Harry was a hazy blue wall, and Harry let out a gasp as he realized that he had made it.

Finding his words again, Harry drew himself up and said, "No. I'm not afraid of you. Why would I be scared when you can't hurt me?". Harry stood and waited for the rage that would come with such obvious defiance, as it always did with his Uncle Vernon, but the boy simply… smiled.

"Of course," the boy said smoothly. "I shouldn't have gotten so angry with you. I was simply confused, and people normally answer my questions quickly. Let's start over. What's your name?".

"Harry," Harry replied, feeling flustered. He did not trust the boy or his obviously fake smile, and the boy had tried to hurt him, but still… The boy had appeared suddenly. He hurt Harry without touching him, which, along with the shield made to stop the pain, Harry had thought impossible. He had called himself a "devil child", something that Harry had only ever heard directed at him. Harry knew he shouldn't get his hopes up, but could this boy be… different? Like him?

"My name is Tom," the other boy said, holding out his hand. It passed right through the shield. Harry hesitated, but, slowly, he took Tom's hand and accepted the handshake.

* * *

From the moment the rabbit died, Tom felt himself getting ripped out of his body, sucked straight through the chest. He stared down in shock as his own body continued to move even as he was rising upwards. He heard and saw himself, and, as he watched himself continue to function perfectly fine, Tom had to wonder, "Who am I?".

An instant later, Tom found himself in his body once more, standing on top of someone else. Before he could even process his shock, he toppled forward, smacking his face on the floor. What had happened? What had the strange feeling been? How had the other person just appeared under him? Tom gritted his teeth and considered different people who could might have taken a dare to "stand up to the scary freak". Dina Hobson, perhaps, or maybe Nicky Brown. He pushed himself up and whirled around to punish whomever it was, a cold glare on his face. Maybe that alone would scare the child enough to make sure they never messed with him again.

The child he saw, however, was not one he recognized, and, with a jolt, Tom realized the boy was a new arrival. That was even worse! Some new kid, whom he had never even met, had taken up the sport of freak baiting? Tom just barely stopped his shoulders from shaking in anger. "Where did you come from?" Tom demanded. "Are you new here? I don't recognize you." He looked up and down at the boy with messy black hair and emerald green eyes behind wire framed glasses. He had a lightning-bolt-shaped scar across his forehead, and, at that, Tom had to stop himself from raising an eyebrow. It was probably the result of a fight. The boy seemed like the kind of worthless snot who would get into fights, especially since he was stupid enough to go "freak baiting" on his first day.

Tom waited for an answer, but all he saw was the slight widening of the boy's eyes. "I asked you a question," Tom said, putting an edge of menace and anger into his voice. When the boy still continued to be silent, Tom felt another surge of anger. Nobody could possibly be this ridiculously defiant if they had heard the stories of his "freakishness", so Tom could only draw one conclusion. Somebody, Billy Stubbs, maybe, had told this boy to play a prank on him without mentioning any of the stories. It made sense, really; the other children saw him as some kind of vicious dog that was simultaneously dangerous, frightening, and entertaining. Of course they would send a new kid, who had no idea of who he was, to be torn to shreds for his mockery. "Maybe if I break this boy even more than anybody could even imagine," Tom thought angrily, "nobody will treat me like this again!".

Gathering up his power, Tom narrowed his eyes slightly and growled, "If you're new here, let the first thing you learn be that, if I ask you something, you answer." Tom jabbed down at the boy's arm, sending out pain in waves from the epicenter. He was filled with a sense of vindictive satisfaction as the other boy bent over, clenching his teeth. "Are you afraid of me now?" Tom whispered, leaning in ever so slightly closer. "This is why they call me the devil child." And it would do the boy well to remember that, so that he never decided to provoke him again. A fist tightened, and, suddenly, Tom's power was shoved back. Tom took a few steadying steps, watching a blue shield blossom outwards from the boy incredulously. How…?

Emotions flitted through Tom's mind, hitting him with an intensity that he hadn't felt in a long, long time. Shock. That anybody could throw off his power. Doubt. Wondering if this was all a dream, or a prank. _Hope_. That maybe, just maybe, this other boy really was like him. He clamped down on all of his feelings, refusing to let his face show any emotions. If this boy was anything like him, he would turn away at the first sign of weakness, and Tom would not let the first person who shared his power scorn and reject him.

The other boy jutted his chin out defiantly and said, "No. I'm not afraid of you. Why should I be scared when you can't hurt me?". The boy's eyes darted down, then back up to their previous challenging stare, as if the boy wasn't used to making such bold declarations. What if… What if the boy was just discovering his powers, like Tom had, years ago? Tom felt a rush of happiness at the thought of teaching the other boy, of… spending time with him. What if the other boy actually chose to be with him, to stay with him because they were alike? Tom refused to let wild hopes run away with him, but he let a small smile slip onto his face nonetheless. Now was his chance to get the other boy to like him!

Tom plastered a larger smile onto his face and applied all of his charm as he said, "Of course. I shouldn't have gotten so angry with you. I was simply confused, and people normally answer my questions quickly. Let's start over. What's your name?".

"Harry," the other boy said, flushing slightly. Harry smiled in a shy, tentative manner, and his green eyes seemed to be brimming with unbridled hope. Tom knew it now. He knew the other boy was special, like him.

"My name is Tom." Tom extended his hand to the other boy, hoping upon hope that the other boy would take it. Hoping that the boy, Harry, would become his companion. That maybe they could share a room, and eat breakfast together, and use magic together. Harry's small, slender fingers entwined themselves with Tom's, and the two boys shook.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry stared at Tom, at a loss for words. Hundreds of questions flashed in his brain, vying to be asked first. The silence stretched on, becoming almost oppressive, and Harry finally blurted out the next question that came to mind. "How did you get here?" he asked, looking down abruptly. Harry glanced back up again, and saw confusion etched across the other boy's face.

"I'm sorry, but I-". Tom cut himself off, and looked around at the ruins, seeming to finally notice their surroundings. His eyes widened. "Where are we?" he asked, a note of panic in his voice.

"An abandoned building," Harry said. "This place used to be an orphanage, I think." It was strange, so very, very strange to hear the confident, self-assured boy standing across from him sound _worried_. Harry knew he would be, if he had suddenly appeared somewhere he didn't recognize, but… Tom had seemed so very calm and in control, and so unlike him in personality.

"Abandoned?" The other boy repeated. His eyes shot around, taking in every inch of the ruins. "What's the name of the orphanage?". The boy sounded as if he was hanging on to some small thread of hope, as if he desperately wanted Harry to give the right answer to his question, but knew that he would hear something else entirely.

"I think the name's Wool's Orphanage," Harry replied, somehow knowing that his answer was not the one Tom wanted to hear at all. Tom's eyes slid upwards, over Harry's head and toward the bloodstained rafters. There was a small, muffled gasp, and then-

"What year is it?". The question came quickly, catching Harry completely off guard, because, whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't this. He had seen that question before, once, coming from a character in a time travel novel: _The Time Machine_ by H.G. Wells. Time travel was a ridiculous idea; it wasn't real, and… neither was magic, or so he had thought. Harry swallowed thickly, and he met Tom's eyes, knowing that his next answer wouldn't be one that the other boy liked, either.

"1988," Harry whispered. "It's 1988." He saw a mix of emotions in the boy's dark green eyes- shock, confusion, and… relief?- before Tom renewed his mask.

"Interesting," he said, tilting his head to the side. Tom's voice was calm, far calmer than what Harry's would have been in this same situation. "Shall we leave?". Numbly, Harry nodded and followed Tom out of the strange, desolate building and onto the equally desolate grounds.

"So….." Harry said. Tom glanced over at him. "What year did you come from?". The other boy slowed, and turned towards Harry, raising an eyebrow.

"1934," Tom drawled. "Why do you ask?".

"Just curious. I-". Harry stopped as he suddenly realized exactly what time period his companion had been living in. World War II had started sometime in the thirties, hadn't it? Had Tom been through air raids, and drafting, and the Blitz? A morbid fascination rose up inside himself, but he suppressed it. Firmly. You weren't supposed to ask questions like that. "Did you live here?" Harry asked, trying to pretend that he had not paused in the middle of his last sentence.

"Yes." Tom's pace quickened, and Harry wondered if he had not liked the orphanage and wanted to get away from the place as quickly as possible. The Dursleys had threatened him with the orphanage time upon time, which meant it had to be worse than his life with them. It had to, somehow, be worse than being underfed and locked in a cupboard and being told that his parents were no good drunkards who had gotten themselves killed while driving under the influence. It had to be worse than being called "boy" and "freak" and knowing that nobody cared about him.

But that wasn't true anymore, was it? Tom had shaken his hand. He had seen Harry do something freaky and he hadn't run away. He _was_ a freak, like Harry himself, except… freak didn't fit Tom. It didn't fit him at all. Tom used his magic freely; he treated it like a gift. Tom was… special, and Harry knew that _he_ had the potential to be special, too. To be like the heroes in the fantasy books. And he had the potential to have a friend. "Where are you going now?" Harry asked, directing the conversation away from the topic of the place that seemed to cause Tom discomfort. Harry knew he could be a good friend, and that he could make Tom feel good, even if he had no practice. He knew that he could have…. tact, and he knew that he could keep Tom by his side if he only tried hard enough.

"I don't know," Tom replied, putting his hands on his pockets. "I don't suppose I could stay with you?". The other boy's hand hovered over the rusted gate as he waited for an answer, and Harry knew this was where he was supposed to say "yes". But it wouldn't be true. The Dursleys would never let him bring someone home with him, especially if that someone was another "freak". Harry couldn't give the answer that Tom wanted to hear, just like he hadn't been able to answer any of Tom's questions correctly.

"My relatives don't like fr- people like us," Harry mumbled, not meeting Tom's eyes. Where would the boy go? Another orphanage?

"I see," Tom said. His hand moved slightly, pushing the gate open. "Why don't you ever leave?".

"What?". Harry couldn't leave the Dursleys; their house was the only place he'd ever had. He couldn't just run off from the only place he knew, could he? But he had considered it, more than once. He had fantasized night upon night of going somewhere else, anywhere other than Number 4 Privet Drive, only to wake up to the same dusty cupboard in the morning.

"I could never leave the orphanage," Tom explained. "I had nowhere else to go. But you could always leave and go to an orphanage. You could move in with me." Harry thought he could hear a note of… pleading, almost entirely masked, yet still there. Tom wanted him to stay, to be by his side in a new and unfamiliar orphanage. To be his friend.

"I don't know," Harry said. "I- I always thought an orphanage would be… worse." Tom gave a slight nod.

"I suppose, but only if they know you're different. When I was younger I couldn't control my gift, but now…. now I can. At a new orphanage, nobody would have to know." Tom paused, gesturing for Harry to follow him before leaving the orphanage grounds and sitting down on the sidewalk outside. Harry sat next to him, staring out at the street, and the buildings, and the cars rumbling by.

"London is huge," Harry realized as he looked out at the tiny piece of the vast city. It was something he had always known, and yet... it had always seemed so far from him, so separate. His world had always been Privet Drive, in Surrey, and it was a world that didn't include cities, or orphanages, or possibilities or friends. It was a world where he was caged in with no choice but to shoulder through with whatever the Dursleys threw at him. And it had made him blind, blind to the fact that there were worlds upon worlds out there that were just an arm's reach away. Out in the vastness of London, he was just a person. A boy who could be anything he wanted to. A boy who didn't have to be a freak. Out there, people didn't know him, and…

"I won't have to be a devil child," Harry whispered, feeling awe at the sheer size of the city that had always been so close yet so far away. "They'll look at me, and all they'll see is a boy."

"Yes," Tom said. His eyes were slightly unfocused as he stared out at the skyline behind the church. "So, are you coming with me?".

Harry paused, considering the question. His mind initially recoiled, of course, from leaving everything he knew, but…. what was there at the Dursleys that he actually cared about? Nothing. Nothing at all. "I heard that they don't feed you enough and they beat you when you misbehave at orphanages," Harry said.

Tom shrugged. "Do your folks feed you enough?".

"They're not my folks," Harry said automatically. But did they feed him enough? They hadn't ever starved him, exactly, but they had always given him less than he wanted. He was consistently sent to his cupboard hungry, and, when he displeased the Dursleys, they took away his meals. His uncle had rarely beaten him, but his cousin chased him and beat him up nearly every single day. Harry had had his share of physical beating, and yet…. the emotional beating was so much worse. It was the malicious words, the insults and the snubbing, and all the things that made him feel worthless that truly hurt. Away from the Dursleys, in the city of London, the city of possibilities, he wouldn't have to deal with any of it, ever again.

"I'll have to let go of all the old, familiar things." Harry was speaking more to himself than to Tom now, voicing his fears even as he shrunk from them. When he left, there would be no more anchors to hold him steady, and no more familiar sights to keep his bearings. He would be adrift, alone, _vulnerable_ , without his memorized rituals and his well-trodden paths and his security in the unchanging nature of his life. In the eight years that he had lived, there hadn't been a hope of things getting better anytime soon, but he had never been worried about things getting worse, either. Now…. now he was standing at the edge of a cliff, thinking that something beautiful might lie at the bottom but not knowing for sure. Now he finally had a choice of either taking Tom's hand and descending with only him for support, or shrinking back and letting himself be kept at the top, unhappy but safe.

"I took your hand already," Harry said suddenly. "I already took it."

"What?" Tom said, as if he didn't understand what Harry meant. But Harry was sure that the other boy understood quite well.

"All I have to do is close my eyes and jump, and then I'll know you won't vanish forever." If Harry returned to what he knew, he would probably never see Tom again. The Dursleys lived nowhere near the church; they had only driven into London from the suburbs because it was the closest Protestant church. They hardly ever went to church, and Harry knew just how unlikely it was that he and Tom, two eight-year-old children with the same gift, had met in the first place. It was a chance encounter, a once-in-a-lifetime encounter. "Somehow, I was given Hope this Easter, and I'm not going to give it up."

He had been given a chance, a chance to have something better than what he had had before, and he wouldn't let it slip through his fingers. "Let's go," Harry said. He was going to jump, and he was going to do it now. Before the Dursleys could stop him by forbidding him to leave. Before they could snatch away his chance just so that they could see the hope fade from his eyes.

Tom took his hand, pulling him up to his feet. "We'll walk to the police station," he said, his voice only betraying the smallest hint of happiness. Harry knew, though, from that tiniest hint, that this was as much of a chance for Tom as it was for him. That Easter, not one, but two boys had been given the greatest gift of all: hope.

As they rounded a corner, the boys let both the church and the orphanage fade from sight, their eyes fixed on the horizon ahead.


	3. Chapter 3

Tom sat across from Harry in the Buckner's Orphanage mess hall, a strong sense of dislike clouding his mind. This mess hall, full of cheap wooden tables and chattering children, reminded him far too much of St. Wool's. He half expected Mrs. Cole to storm in and yank him up to punish him for getting revenge on Billy Stubbs. Or, perhaps, younger children would approach him on a dare and dance around him, treating him like some kind of savage animal. Tom's clenched around his plastic fork and he gritted his teeth as terrible images, terrible _memories_ flitted through his mind.

He had to focus. He had to clear his mind and think rationally! He was being so very, very pathetic…. "Tom?" Harry said, looking up at him. The other boy's gaze was intense, and it pierced through the haze of Tom's deja vu. "Where do people sleep in orphanages?". Harry immediately ducked his head down, as if his question was somehow embarrassing.

"I've only been in one, but I think people generally stay in small dormitories and sleep in beds," Tom replied.

"Oh," Harry said softly, staring down at his meatloaf. He prodded his food with his fork, pushing it around his plate. "That's nice, huh?".

Tom considered it. Were the sleeping arrangements in orphanages particularly nice? He had gotten a decently sized room to himself, and his bed had always been fine, but… Most of the other children had stayed in four-person rooms and had to share a bed with somebody else. The only reason he had his own room was because the matron had been afraid that he would use his "demonic powers" on the others if he shared a dormitory with them (not exactly an unfounded fear). Generally speaking, the children who lived in orphanages had worse living arrangements than those who didn't. But, then again, from what he'd gathered, Harry's family didn't like him very much.

"Are you not hungry?" Tom inquired, glancing at Harry's uneaten food. He wasn't stupid, and, though Harry hadn't explicitly said he wasn't fed enough, the other boy was tellingly thin and had evaded the question. Tom hardly cared whether or not his new companion had an eating disorder, but the other residents of the orphanage certainly would. Looking like a walking stick would make Harry seem weak. Like an easy target. And Tom wasn't looking to blow his cover by defending the boy.

"No," Harry mumbled, finally stabbing a piece of meatloaf. "I'm just thinking, you know, about everything that happened today." Tom nodded slowly. A lot had happened today, for both him and Harry. He had traveled through time. Harry had moved into an orphanage. They had both found someone who would stay in spite of the freakishness. Not that Tom _cared_ about Harry, of course- he didn't even know if he was capable of _caring_ \- but it would be nice to have somebody to spend time with, somebody to use magic with and talk with and just go through the day-to-day things that made people the people they were with. And then, of course, there had been his realization of how important names really were, not only to others but to _himself_.

He had certainly understood Harry's reluctance to answer "Riddle" rather than "Potter" when the lady at the police station had asked his surname; apparently it had been the surname of his deceased parents, and anyone might want to hold onto it. He had decided to keep his own last name, after all, as it seemed more likely than ever that his father had been special, _like him_. But what still surprised, and, to some extent _confused_ him was that he had decided to hold onto "Tom". It was such a very, very painfully common name, a constant reminder of the many times the Orphanage matron had told him he was doomed to a life of manual labor, doomed to a life spent faded into the masses. It was a name that dragged him downwards, and he could have thrown it off when the lady had asked for an identification. He could have given something unique, something special, something that _suited_ who and what he was. But he hadn't.

He had told himself that it was because he had wanted to set himself apart by his own actions rather than by a measly _name_ , but he knew that was only an excuse, designed to mask the uncomfortable truth. He had developed an absolutely _disgusting_ sentiment for his name, not unlike the sentiment that the _cretins_ at the Orphanage had felt for their possessions that. And while it was rather difficult for someone to hurt him by taking or destroying his name, it disturbed him that he _could_ become attached to things. That he might develop an attachment for something that could be used against him. It was ridiculous! He wanted his name to stay his, despite the fact that he it also belonged to thousands of others, all because it was the thing that had shared all his triumphs and joys and achievements. All because he had always been called by it and didn't want to part with one of the very few things he had.

"Are you regretting it?" Tom asked.

Harry frowned, his face scrunching up. "Do I regret… what? Which part? Lots of things have happened today." It was left unsaid that several of those things that had happened were things that many people would regret, but Tom had always been good at reading in between the lines, using subtle subtexts and even picking out the unconscious thoughts that people _didn't_ want him to know.

"It," Tom said, affecting an air of nonchalance. "Any of it, really. Befriending someone who obviously enjoyed causing you pain, moving to an orphanage, changing your name…"

This gave Harry greater pause, and he hesitated, as if something he was going to say was going to offend him. It wasn't very likely, of course. Harry hardly knew him, and he didn't have any information on his flaws that he might find offensive to hear. Nonetheless, Tom felt somewhat nervous as he waited for the other boy to speak. Would Harry think him a monster? Would the other boy consider him something unnatural, something _freakish_ , not because of his power, but because he delighted in causing pain to others?

He had always known that his brand of… sadism was not normal, but it had never really bothered him. In fact, he had always considered it to be something that stemmed naturally from his superior power; of course he would revel in using it and seeing its effectiveness! But Harry didn't seem like somebody who would derive any joy from draining the life out of a rabbit or taking revenge on those who wronged him. He didn't seem like he would find any satisfaction whatsoever in hearing the screams of the people who crossed him, and maybe Tom's sadism wasn't quite normal for special people. Maybe it disgusted Harry just as much as it had disgusted the other children at the Orphanage.

Harry had still gone with him, though! He had still taken his hand and turned his back on the place that had been his home- in spite of all the injustices he had suffered through- to move into an Orphanage with him! He couldn't be regretting all of it now, could he? He couldn't… Harry's voice cut into his thoughts, bringing him back to the falsely familiar mess hall. "I only regret the name," Harry said, his voice quiet. "I've… always sort of hoped my parents loved me, before they died-". Tom held back a snort. He understood love and caring in a clinical sort of way, of course; he knew that people felt that way towards one another. He hadn't, however, ever approved of such a crippling weakness. "-and I didn't want to let go of the one thing I had left from them. You understand that, right? You didn't… you didn't want to let go of your last name…".

Tom nodded, even though his reasons for wanting to keep his surname were completely different from the ones Harry had given. He didn't particularly _care_ for a man he didn't even know, and he honestly wouldn't be at all surprised to hear that his father held no love for him. There was hardly any chance of his father finding him now, at a different Orphanage fifty years in the future. The thing was, though… the name was tied to years of hoping that there were people out there who were magic, like him, and who could _understand_ him. It was tied to hope that one day he would meet people who wouldn't dismiss him as a troubled freak, or, worse, a boy with mental health issues. And now, in the form of Harry, he _had_ that. He didn't want to let go of something that represented _magic_ to him, and Harry didn't want to let go of something that represented love to him. Power was important to him. Love, a ridiculous weakness, was important to Harry. The two were very, very different things, and Tom suspected Harry saw that, too. They could always pretend that difference wasn't there, though, couldn't they?

"I certainly understand wanting to keep my surname," Tom said smoothly. "It's a shame that you had to lose yours, though I'm sure you realize they would have been able to find your… relatives if you had kept it."

"Yeah, I know." Harry was quiet for a few moments before suddenly perking up. "I'm not really losing it, though, right? Harry Riddle is just my... my spy name! You know, my secret identity."

Tom smirked, glancing at the other boy."What's your favorite spy novel?" he asked..

Harry grinned widely. "Harriet the Spy was brilliant," he said. "I found it in the school library, too, imagine that. They don't have a lot of good books in there, see." Tom nodded, slowly. He had never heard of the book before, but it sounded somewhat… childish.

"Personally, I rather enjoyed The Informer. It was rather difficult, but… good."

"I read a book like that one time!" Harry exclaimed. "It was… it was a book called The Time Machine!".the title made it sound rather… childish. Not that he hadn't read childish books, of course, but it had mostly been when he was younger.

"I personally rather enjoyed reading The Informer," Tom said. "Some of the words were a bit difficult, but it was good, nonetheless." He certainly hoped that Harry would not be put off by his bookishness, but, all things considered, he probably wouldn't be. After all, what kind of person accepted somebody in spite of their sadistic tendencies but was put off by bookishness?

True to form, Harry's smile only grew bigger. "I read The Time Machine, and it was kinda hard, but I really liked it." At that, Tom had to snort.

"I never really thought The Time Machine was that difficult," Tom said. Harry's eyes widened comically.

"You've read it? It must be really old!". Then, Harry seemed to realize what he had just said and amended, "Not that you seem old, or anything, but, well, you know…".

"I could very well be your grandfather," Tom replied. He paused, seriously considering his words. He knew nothing about how he had managed to traveled to the future (at least he hadn't gone far enough forward that he was attacked by underground ape-people). He hadn't made a time machine; he hadn't been trying to travel through time at all. He hadn't changed his place at all, but he had shifted exactly fifty-four years through time. Why? Something must have brought him to 1988 rather than some other year, and the most likely answer seemed to be that the something was Harry. He had landed on the other boy, after all, and they were around the same age. They both had magic. It couldn't be a mere coincidence, could it?

No, Tom thought that something about Harry had drawn him forward to 1988, and the possibility of them being blood relatives was… not that far-fetched, really; they even looked somewhat similar. Maybe… maybe when a blood descendant of his had stood in the same spot as him, on the same day as him, at roughly the same age, some kind of _magic_ had been activated. Maybe…

"I'm done with dinner, Gramps," Harry announced. Tom looked over, rolling his eyes. Clearly Harry thought that he hadn't been serious, but, well… how could he be Harry's grandfather anyways? Since he hadn't had any children before he left- eight was far too young for that, at least in his opinion- that meant that, if he had any descendants her would have to have….. or, rather, would have to travel _back_ in time at some later point.

"Then let's go on our first…". What was the word? " _Reconnaissance_ mission. We need to find a Miss Nancy and get important information on where our room is."

"Right," Harry said, nodding. "I'm just glad that my first mission isn't… _assassinating_ or something. Murder makes me a bit…" Harry's brows scrunched together as he searched for the proper word. "...squeamish."

"How remarkable," Tom drawled.

"I know!" Harry said, "I'm so weird, right?". Tom rolled his eyes at the other boy's antics.

"Yes," Tom said. "Of course. Now let's get to our informant's office." He hadn't bantered with anybody before, for the simple reason that people had been far too afraid of him (most of them hadn't been witty enough, either). Now, though…. now that he was bantering with somebody worthy of his attentions, it was… _fun_.

* * *

"Goodnight, Tom," Harry whispered.

"Goodnight…. Harry." A small smile crossed Tom's face. The next day… the next day they would eat together, and _talk_ together and maybe even practice using _magic_ together _._ The possibilities were endless, and it was all because of the strange twist of fate that sent him hurtling through time.

They fell asleep.

* * *

 **AN: Hi! (There's actually a person posting these things? No way!) So, I'd just to clear things up and make sure there aren't any misconceptions about this story. First of all, this will NOT BE SLASH, so if you're looking for that... sorry. Secondly, I can't promise regular updates, but I will definitely try to post at least one chapter every two weeks. And, lastly, I honestly only have a vague idea as to where the plot is going, and I haven't quite decided how closely it will follow canon yet. So... sorry again if I've disappointed anybody.**

 **Also, how are my characterizations? I keep feeling they're far too OOC. It's something that I generally don't like in other people's fanfictions, so I certainly hope it isn't present or at least not too noticeable in mine!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks to everybody who left a review.**

 **To Mishu Gohiku (Chapter 2): I'm not sure if you mean light, gray, and dark as in the magic types or as in the political affiliations. If we're talking about magic, Harry is not going to choose to only learn light or dark spells, but I can't say for sure whether or not he will be entirely neutral in his spell choices. Personally, I'm leaning towards him just learning whatever spells are useful to him. As for political affiliations, he is eight right now, so it's a bit hard to tell what kind of beliefs he'll end up having. I don't really think that he and Tom will completely agree with either Dumbledore or Voldemort's ideals, so they'd probably start their own political faction. Harry will be an influence on Tom for sure, since they'll be growing up together, but Tom already has a fairly strong personality, so don't expect a complete heel-face turn. Tom will be Tom, and, if he is a hero, he's definitely going to be a bit of an anti-hero.**

 **To Mishu Gohiku (Chapter 3): The Tom that Harry met is a copy, of sorts, of the Tom who became Voldemort. I thought that I made it clear in the first chapter, when Tom's body continues moving even after the Tom who went forward in time was sucked out of it, but... sorry if I didn't. Anybody who would reasonably recognize Tom will recognize him; Dumbledore suspected him and knew that he became Voldemort, so, yes, I think he'd probably recognize him, no? Mcgonagall and Tom's original Knights of Walpurgis/ Death Eaters would recognize him too, but he will not be recognized by every person who has ever seen him.**

* * *

It was every child's _dream_ to find out that there was really magic out there, that there was something _beyond_ the boring everyday world. Petunia Dursley (Petunia Evans at the time) had been thirteen when that dream had seemed to come true for her, through a certain letter arriving by owl to her family's home. The only problem was that the dream had soon turned into a nightmare.

At first Petunia had thought the letter was a prank, for, even though admittedly _odd_ things had happened around Lily, and even though her sister's nasty friend had gone on and on about a magical world, it had just seemed so _implausible_! But then a middle-aged woman… a _witch_ had turned a plate into a bird and there was no denying it: her sister was magical and she wasn't. Her sister was going to go _learn magic_ along with the nasty Snape boy while she stayed and continued the same mundane existence she always had, _knowing_ that there was something else out there. So she had asked the woman-Minerva Mcgonagall- if she could please, _please_ do _something_ to join the magical world. She had pleaded to work in a shop, or catalog books or _anything_ as long as she could be surrounded by beautiful devices that did wonderful things and people casting _spells_. The woman had refused.

There were reasons, of course; people like her couldn't properly see or interact with magical things, they couldn't defend themselves in the magical world, the magical government didn't let people let people like her- _muggles-_ into magical places…. The list went on and on. Petunia had tried not to be bitter about it, of course, because the reasoning had made _sense_ , but the fact had still remained that Lily had gotten every child's dream and she hadn't for no particular reason at all. And so her eighth grade year had passed for her, identical in appearance to all her previous years, yet also completely and utterly different. Before the letter, she had sat on the swings alone or with one or two friends- she had never been too popular- thinking about a boy or about how her life could be different if only she were pretty, or smart, or well-liked. The year after the letter came, though, and many years after _that_ … she had thought only of Hogwarts and the beautiful, wonderful things that her sister was learning there and that _she wasn't_.

Petunia had tried not to think about it,she really had, but it had been practically impossible. She had avoided her sister for the remainder of the summer holidays, avoided reading her sister's book list, avoided _anything_ that could possibly remind her of the world she would never be able to see, but she hadn't been able to avoid thinking about it. It hadn't helped that her sister had rubbed it in her face, either. It hadn't been on purpose, of course; Lily was always so terribly kind, so _annoyingly_ patient and perfect. But whenever her sister had tapped the magical teacups with her wand to turn them into mice or giggled madly- _happily_ \- at her chocolate frogs enchanted to act like real ones, Petunia was reminded of everything she did not have. When she saw all the wonderfully impossible her sister could do, she had always filled with a forbidden yearning because she could not… _would_ not give in to the temptation to play with the teasing glimpses of the world she wanted so very, very much, only to be even more miserable when she realized again that she could never have it.

But Lily had been persistent, and oh-so-cruel in her kindness. She had tried giving Petunia teacups, and flying paper birds, and hadn't stopped even when Petunia had snapped at her. And Petunia hadn't wanted to really, truly tell her sister exactly _why_ she didn't want anything to do with magic. She hadn't wanted to tell her Lily when she wouldn't ever understand what it meant to be a muggle with a witch for a sister. She hadn't wanted to see blind pity in her sister's eyes when she already pitied herself more than enough. So Petunia had hurt her sister by calling her a freak in a desperate to make her stop her ignorant cruelty.

Now Petunia sat in the passenger's seat of a freak-less car, with her normal husband and normal son, holding back tears. It should have been a happy occasion, but _it wasn't_. She should have felt joy at the thought that she would never have to see any of the painful reminders of the world she couldn't ever have. She should have been grinning and leaping about in happiness at being finally free from her childhood dreams, finally free to move on and live her own life as more than the wistful thirteen-year-old she had once been, but she couldn't bring herself to be happy about her new freedom.

"Be careful what you wish for," Petunia thought dully, watching as the utterly ordinary trees and buildings passed by in a blur. "It just might come true." There was something worse than having a constant reminder of what she couldn't have living in her house, and Petunia now knew exactly what it was. It was having no ties left whatsoever to the magic beyond the mundane world. It was living her pathetically loveless, banal life, knowing that there was _no chance at all_ that she would ever be allowed into the world she had been denied. With Harry gone, she wouldn't even know if people like her were allowed to integrate into magical society. A new spell could be developed and a new law could be passed that allowed muggles who knew of magic to interact with it properly, and she would be just as ignorant of it as all her neighbors.

She was just an ordinary homemaker, now, and, for all she told herself otherwise, she was far less than a thirteen-year-old who had hope and a dream.

* * *

 **This is a really short chapter, but I just thought it would be nice to show the perspective of another character. I'll continue showing the perspectives of other characters (Snape, Mcgonagall, Dumbledore, maybe Hermione...) unless you ask me not to, in which case I won't. I really hope I din't mess up Petunia. Is she too OOC in a bad way?**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks to everyone who left a review (Honestly, I didn't expect any when I posted the first chapter of this fic).**

 **To Mishi Gohiku: Harry will not give up his conscience or moral code, but he might see things in a less black and white way. I can also see him being more ruthless in pursuing his goals than his is in canon; your friends do have a large influence on who you become. On that note, I also think Tom will probably hurt people a good deal less, if only at Harry's behest. That should certainly leave him less psychologically scarred by the time he starts Hogwarts.**

* * *

"You still can't do it?" Tom said, a bemused expression on his face.

Harry ducked his head to hide his reddening cheeks. It was so unfair! Tom made everything- levitating, breaking glass, _just doing magic in general_ \- look so easy! Harry just couldn't seem to call up his powers when he tried to use them on purpose, and it was beginning to irritate him. "I guess not," he mumbled, looking down at the stationary leaf. "I don't think I really _get_ levitation…".

Tom leaned back against the wall of their dormitory, crossing his arms and looking at Harry and the very not-levitated leaf in what could only be described as an appraising manner. "It is only your tenth try, and, while I did get it right on my second attempt, I _am_ a genius…". It took Harry a moment to realize that Tom was joking.

"And so humble, too," Harry said, grinning slightly. Of course, the fact still remained that Tom _had_ gotten it on his second try, while he was still struggling to figure the whole thing out, but…

"I just had an idea!" Tom said. He pushed himself off from the wall and walked so that he stood right beside Harry. "Have you ever _accidentally_ made something float?" he asked, sounding excited.

"No," Harry replied, almost immediately. He could count the number of times he had caused "accidents" on one hand; once he had turned a teacher's wig blue, and the other time he had managed to appear on the roof of his school when he was running from his cousin. There had never been any levitation involved, and… was that a bad thing? Maybe it meant that he wasn't as good at magic as Tom, and that he was… weaker. Making things float was far cooler than changing colors, after all. "I just… I've only turned something blue and appeared in a new place," he mumbled.

To his surprise, Tom's eyebrows shot up. "You teleported?" he asked, as if it was incredibly difficult to understand. "How?".

Harry shrugged. "I guess I… really _wanted_ to be somewhere else." He had been running, and had found himself cornered against the dumpsters. He had waited for the feeling of fists and sticks pounding against his body, and had wished with all his might that he was somewhere else, _anywhere_ else…

Tom seemed to consider his answer, and was silent for a few moments before saying, "That sounds rather hard. Try turning the leaf red, and make the same sort of things that went through your head the last time… go through your head again." Harry gave a small, somewhat jerky nod as he bent down to pick up the leaf. He was going to turn it red by his second try…. hopefully. Surely he had to be good at _something_. Harry stared at the leaf, his vision blurring slightly as a somewhat distant memory resurfaced.

He stood still, clutching the leaf between his fingers, his eyes tracing the veins flowing out from the stem just as they had traced the individual strands of hair on his teacher's wig. He had been six, and the teacher had towered over him, her breath coming out in hot gasps on his face as she accused him of stealing money from her purse. Harry had gritted his teeth together and took the unfounded accusations and the insults- she had called him a stupid, grubby-fingered piece of street trash- knowing full well that crying or protesting would only make it worse for him later. He had stared hard at her wig, memorizing its precise shape and color so that he didn't have to look at her hateful eyes…. Then, his classmates had started laughing, and something in him had snapped.

Harry had wanted for his classmates to stop laughing at him, to laugh at someone else instead if it meant they would only stop making him feel like he really was all the terrible things his teacher had called him. He had wanted to strike at his teacher's pride like she had struck at his…. and her greatest pride had been her beautifully well-maintained "hair". And so he had felt something tingle from within him as he focused on the image of the hated teacher's wig, as he had wished with all his might that it would transform into something completely and utterly humiliating. Now, as he shut his eyes, the leaf's image was still burned into his retinas. He wanted it to change into something different so that he could prove to know that he wasn't only second best to Tom. The tingling feeling was rising again….

The wig had turned blue. Harry's eyes snapped open, and... the leaf was red. Harry blinked, feeling shocked. It had been brown only a second ago, but now… now it was red. How…? He knew, of course, that it had changed colors by _his_ will, but it was hard to fit his mental images of himself, the…. well…. the freak, and Tom, who was everything special and magical, together. He had _hoped_ and _wished_ to be like Tom, to be able to do incredible things just because he wanted them to, but he hadn't really been expecting it to work. Sure, there had been a moment, when the tingling feeling inside himself had reached its peak that he had felt like he could be anything… like he could touch the sky… but he hadn't believed it before or after.

Tom was grinning. "I knew you could do it," he said, as he reached out for the now-red leaf. Numbly, Harry handed it over. Tom had known? _Tom_ had _known_? He couldn't have… even he himself hadn't known. He had been almost certain that it _wouldn't_ work, actually!

"Really?" Harry asked, his voice quiet. "How?".

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Usually, saying 'I knew you could do it' is something you do to encourage people or make them feel good about themselves . It's pretty common and doesn't indicate that the person saying it is the next great prophet"

"Oh," Harry muttered, unable to hide his disappointment. He had thought that… maybe… No, of course Tom was just saying it. There was no _reason_ why someone would have faith in _him_ ; he just wasn't the sort of person who really inspired faith. Now, Tom, on the other hand… Tom had an air of confidence that made people want to believe him, and to believe _in_ him. He had still managed to do it, though! He had managed to turn the leaf red on his first try, and surely that was something worth celebrating. He forced his mouth into a somewhat awkward smile, but, as moments passed, the smile grew and became more and more real.

So what if neither he nor Tom had believed in him this time? He had still done it, and that was what mattered. Next time… next time he would believe in himself, and Tom would say "I knew you could do it" and really, truly mean it. And the best part was that there would _be_ a next time. How could he possibly stay disappointed for long when wonderful things like next time, and friends, and magic were very real parts of his life?

"I got it right on the _first_ try," Harry said, looking over at Tom. "What does that tell you, Mr. Genius?".

Tom rolled his eyes. "Sure," he drawled. "You figured out color-changing faster than I figured out levitation, but…". He smirked, slightly raising one hand. "Can you do this?".

Suddenly, a pillow flew off Tom's bed and hit Harry on the side of his face. He let out a squeak and fell over, hitting the floor with a soft thud. "Hey!" he said indignantly, looking up. Tom was staring at his hand, as if shocked that he had just used his power to throw a pillow at another boy- usually he only used it for showy and impressive things. At the sound of his voice, though, Tom glanced at him, the confusion slipping from his face and a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Harry gaped. His new friend wasn't _boring,_ per se; he was perfectly willing to joke around or banter. The thing was, though… There was always a quiet, almost _adult-like_ seriousness beneath the laughs and immature eye-rolls. There was always a cold, slow-burning determination in Tom's eyes that made him seem years older than he really was. But it was gone now, and there was only amusement in the other boy's dark green gaze. Maybe… maybe if Tom could goof off, and smile- really smile, not just pretend to- and be _playful_ …. He might not immediately reject the idea of play-acting as being silly and childish.

"Come on," Tom said teasingly. "Surely you're going to put up more of a fight than that."

Harry tried to roll to his feet, and surprised himself when it actually worked. Ever since he had seen a character in one of Dudley's cartoons pull off the move, he had practiced it every time he wanted to go from lying down to standing up. He had never managed to do it _quite_ right, though…. "I was going easy on you," Harry said, and, in the next moment he was lunging for the pillow on the ground. He swung it upwards and it sailed in a graceful arc, flying through the air and hitting the other boy in the chest.

"That's a little better."

Harry tossed another pillow at Tom.

* * *

Harry was lying on the grass outside, looking at the shapes the clouds formed in the sky. As a group of black-feathered birds flew by in a v-formation, he stared after them wistfully. He had always wished that he could fly, above everything, looking down at the treetops, the wind whistling through his hair….

He couldn't. He couldn't transform into a bird, even with his newfound control over his powers. It was a bit harder, he supposed, to fly than it was to change objects' colors, but he had thought that, maybe, since he had been practicing changing colors on purpose for two days, that he could somehow do it. And so, when the children of Buckner's Orphanage had been let let out to play, and he had seen the birds soaring through the air, he had felt compelled to try. He had watched the birds, picturing himself as one of them, and wishing… wanting….

His power had risen, tingling, inside himself, but it hadn't nearly been strong enough to change his form. And Tom hadn't been able to do it either, despite having much more practice with and control of magic. "Maybe some day," Harry told himself. Perhaps some day, when he was older, he would be able to shed his skin and become a cat, then a fish, then a bird, like The Crane Girl from the stories. Maybe he would be able to learn what it was like to be every animal in the world…...

"Do you see the boy turning into a bear?" Harry asked, pointing up at one of the clouds drifting by overhead. Lazily, he turned his head to the side, looking at Tom.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Is there any particular reason why you're seeing all the clouds as people turning into animals?". He was sitting next to Harry, his legs sprawled out on the ground. He had a book propped open, and seemed to be halfway done, despite having only started it a day ago. Of course, by his own admission, he was a _genius_ ….

"This one really looks like it, though!" Harry protested. "Look at it! It really does!".

Tom let out a long suffering sigh, but obliged Harry, tipping his head back to scan the skies. "I suppose," he said, after a moment. "In my opinion, it looks more like someone with their innards spilling out, but….".

"That's gross," Harry said, wrinkling his nose. Privately, he wondered why Tom would be thinking about people with their innards spilling out, anyways. His magic-hating uncle had once yelled at him for saying that he saw a witch's hat in the shape of a cloud drifting past the car window- apparently people usually saw things that they were thinking about. Was Tom reading about brutal killing and maiming in his book? "I wonder what it feels like to fly," he said, partly to distract himself from the images of people lying in pools of blood that were now popping into his head, and partly because… maybe… When you levitated objects, did it feel like flying?

"How would I know?" Tom asked. "Be a fighter pilot when you're older if you want to find out." Harry considered the idea. It _would_ be pretty neat to be a fighter pilot, flying fast and pulling off dangerous moves, dodging and trading fire….. It wasn't quite like being a bird, but it sounded like a great job, at least.

He wouldn't be able to feel the wind, though. Maybe if he hadn't met Tom and found out how to use his power, he would have been content with joining the Royal Air Force, but, now that he had a taste of what magic could do, he didn't think he would _ever_ give up the idea of flying unsupported. "If I could talk to the birds, I could ask them," Harry mused.

Tom glanced over at him and asked, "Have you tried talking to the birds? Who knows? They might answer." For a moment, Harry thought Tom was mocking him, but then he saw the other boy's calm, neutral features and realized that he was being completely serious.

"I don't know how to talk to animals," Harry muttered. How did one talk to animals, anyways? Did you just want, and wish, and hope until the tingling feeling came….? It would be so wonderful to be able to talk to animals, even if it wasn't quite _as_ wonderful as becoming the animals; he could finally find out how pigeons could always find their home and why cats brought their owners dead animals. Something told him, though, that talking to animals, was a little like _becoming_ an animal; it was probably really hard and complicated, and he would likely have to wait until he was much, much older to have any success with it.

"Just walk up to a bird," Tom said. His book was shut, and he seemed to finally be _interested_ in the conversation. "Look it in the eye, and ask it what it feels like to fly." There was a pause, and then Tom added, in a slightly arrogant tone of voice, " _I_ can speak to snakes."

Oddly enough, that statement didn't really surprise Harry, even though it should have. People weren't supposed to be able to just walk up to birds, or snakes, or any animals, really, and _speak_ with them. There was magic, of course, the strange power that he and Tom seemed to share, but the way Tom had said "look it in the eye and ask it what it feels like to fly" he had made it rather clear that there wasn't any magic involved. It would make _sense_ for Tom's previously unknown snake-whispering abilities to have come as a shock to Harry. But he couldn't seem to bring himself to care.

Besides, the two seemed to _fit_ together, in a bizarre way. Tom and snakes. Snakes and Tom. Harry firmly believed that, if people had spirit animals, Tom's would be a snake. Snakes were sneaky, and clever, and they could easily get out of tight spots. From what he had seen of Tom, that description fit the other boy perfectly; he was a master of lying and concealing his emotions. If anyone could understand and communicate with snakes, it would be Tom. Still, though, he couldn't quite trust his new friend to not trick him.

"What if this is just a prank to make me look dumb?" Harry said, his eyes fixed up towards the sky. "Maybe you just want to see me try talking to a bunch of birds so that you can laugh at me later. Seems like the sort of thing you'd do, actually." He _wanted_ to think that Tom wouldn't mess with him like that, of course, but the fact was that he had only known the other boy for four days. Years of being cruelly pranked and chased around by boys with big sticks had made him warier than most children his age, and Harry wondered if he was being too paranoid. Thankfully, though, Tom seemed to understand.

"I can prove to you that I really can talk to snakes," he said, carefully setting his book on the ground beside him and rising to his feet. "Come over to the bushes with me. I'm sure I can find one."

"Really?" Harry asked, feeling somewhat surprised. He hadn't ever seen a snake up close before, come to think of it, so how had Tom even gotten close enough to talk to one? And how could he be _sure_ that he could find one? "I guess I'll just have to see for myself," Harry thought, internally grumbling at the idea of moving from his warm, pleasant spot on the Orphanage lawn. Letting out a soft sigh, he tried rolling to his feet again, and failed miserably, landing flat on his face.

"I can't see why you insist on doing that," Tom said as Harry picked himself up. "You almost always make yourself look like a fool." Harry shrugged. One day he would be able to do it perfectly every time, but, yes, until then there would be a lot of embarrassing falls and faceplants. "Eloquent as always," Tom muttered, then set off towards the row of bushes lining the Orphanage's back wall with brisk, purposeful strides. As always, he managed to make it look like he was doing exactly what he was supposed to be. Harry knew that he couldn't walk that way, since, like most children, he had tried it once. Instead, he settled for jogging past Tom and reaching the bushes several seconds before him. It was a bit childish, of course, but Harry had always figured that there wasn't any point in being a child if you weren't allowed to be childish once in awhile.

"I got here before you!" Harry said triumphantly, once Tom had reached the bushes.

"I can see that," Tom said, and proceeded to peer into the giant mass of untrimmed leaves- the Orphanage's Matron would hardly be doing a good job if she wasted funds on hiring a gardener. " _Hello_?" Tom called out, and Harry felt a jolt of surprise. Tom was calling into the bushes, which meant…. he was trying to talk to a snake. Did they understand him when he spoke English?

" _I am here, speaker of the snake-tongue_." Harry nearly jumped. The voice that replied was sibilant, and it was soft, and it was snake-like, but, most importantly, _it was speaking English_. Snakes weren't supposed to speak English! A tapered green head slid out from the bushes. The mouth parted slightly, and the creature spoke some more.

" _What did you wish to speak of_?" it asked, its forked tongue slipping out and tasting the air.

" _The weather_ ," Tom said, smirking slightly. " _It's been quite nice recently."_ Harry understood every single word of the conversation, so that meant either that he, too, could speak to snakes, or that Tom's power was to make snakes he talked to understand and speak English.

"Tom?" he said, a little tentatively.

Tom broke off from his conversation to turn and look at him. "Are you impressed yet?" he inquired, the slightest hint of smugness in his voice.

"I can understand what you're saying," Harry said, glancing up at Tom. "Am I supposed to?".

Tom didn't answer his question, an unreadable expression on his face. "Try saying something to the snake," he suggested.

Harry gulped. He didn't want to embarrass himself, but…..

" _Are you hungry_?" he hissed.

" _I always am_ ," the snake replied. Harry stared at it, at a loss for words. He wasn't supposed to be able to talk to snakes… was he? It didn't seem to be like "normal" magic; he had thought it was just a strange skill that Tom had. But he had it, too, and that was just too big of a coincidence…. _unless it wasn't a coincidence at all_.

It would just be _weird_ , though, to be Tom's descendant, even though the evidence seemed to be pointing towards it. "Er….." Harry mumbled, shifting around rather awkwardly.

"I assume that you don't know your family tree," Tom said musingly.

"I don't." Unfortunately. He had always been interested in hearing more about his parents and the rest of his family, but the Dursleys would never tell him anything except that his parents were good-for-nothing drunks- which he hoped was a lie, anyway. "I only know the names of my parents," Harry added.

Tom nodded, as if his words confirmed the mental picture the other boy had of him- Harry saw Tom as being the sort of person who created rather accurate mental pictures of what people were like after only knowing them for a very short amount of time. "I see," Tom said. There was a long silence, then…. "I expect you'll want to try talking to the birds now."

Harry thought about it. He thought about how it would be _too much_ if he could talk to both birds and snakes. He thought about how Tom would laugh at him when he- almost inevitably- made a fool of himself. And then he thought of the fact that he didn't have a valid excuse to _not_ do it, especially after pestering Tom and making him go through the trouble of proving that he could speak to snakes. With a somewhat resigned sigh, Harry started off towards a group of birds.

Oh well. At least Tom didn't have a video recorder. Surely, with all the memorable moments in the making, this incident would be completely and totally forgotten by the time they were adults…. Unless it wasn't.

For some inexplicable reason, the embarrassing memories seemed to stick around.

* * *

 **I know that it's been almost a month, but I've been... busy. I certainly hope my characters are still in character after all this time. Please leave a review (unless it is 4 A.M. and you have finals the next day, in which case, please go to sleep).**


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